


I'm Ready to Go (Ready to Throw)

by I_Am_Titanium



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Immortal Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Literally no one would object when I say Triss is a hopeless romantic, Other: See Story Notes, Phil is a wretched little brat, Rating May Change, Triss/Ciri bonding time!, Yenna the mommy bear, we'll see about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Titanium/pseuds/I_Am_Titanium
Summary: "As an immortal and hopeless romantic, you fake your death whenever your spouse dies, then search for your spouse's reincarnated soul to continue your 'past lives'. Your immortal spouse is highly amused by this."OrTriss couldn't deal with the fact that she would lose Philippa someday until she discovered she didn't need to
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Triss Merigold, I CAN'T BELIEVE THERE ISN'T A TAG FOR TRISS & YENNA, My friend suggests it's because they are true love, Triss Merigold/Philippa Eilhart, well
Kudos: 16





	I'm Ready to Go (Ready to Throw)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yall! When I first saw this writing prompt I KNEW it was for Merihart and I HAVE to write this. I don't know the details yet but hope I can figure it out!
> 
> This most likely won't be updated regularly since I am a video game addict but I do try my best to dedicate more to one of my Triss otp ship. We'll see...
> 
> Title from Imagine Dragon's "Boomerang", as in "you will always come back to me".

"I am sorry for your loss, Ms Goldminster." 

"It’s all right, Mr. Jameson." Triss whispers as she turns to the funeral host, a wrinkled hand smoothing out an inappropriate crease on the hem of her black dress. Although everything is only a formality, she still wishes to have a decent ending for her lover in this life as perfectly as possible, "all journeys come to an end. We finish the one we're on only to begin anew in the best of us."

There are more workers from the chapel than friends in the hall, but Triss does not mind. For her, the fewer people know about her -- their -- secret, the safer the said secret is. Plus, Philippa was, well, always kind of too much of a jerk to keep people around anyway. Triss recognizes a mutual friend of theirs, Sheala De Tancarville, merely an acquaintance for her but Philippa seemed to always take a special liking to the scholar and her research, something of their common interest. Despite the fact that Triss knows little of those, she has been happy that her mate’s interpersonal skills are still salvageable. There are neighbors too, the owner of the only flower shop in town Triss used to frequent to purchases flowers of various kinds from to surprise Philippa, the headmistress of the special school Philippa used to visit after she was pathologically blind for a short while, the baker's son who would exchange stale bread from his family for a chance to pet Philippa's owl Sappho. Not exactly the loved ones one would expect to show up at a funeral.

No biological relatives. Philippa’s family in this life disowned her after she came out at 15, and Triss’ are even more out of the question. All of her (not exactly loving) family members died of senility centuries ago after she gained her immortality. Since then, Philippa Eilhart, the woman lying in the open casket right now, has become all the loved ones she needs. Soon after they first met and formed companionship, Triss was so unable to let her go when Philippa inevitably died like every mortal, that she had been secretly using magic to track Philippa’s reincarceration forms after her desease to live another life with her. This is why some staff members eye her in suspicion and projected thoughts Triss can easily read like “she doesn’t seem sad at all innit” and “another bloody unloving couple” and “do you reckon she killed her wife”, to which Triss almost cannot resist to reply  _Seriously?_ in telepathy.

After all, when you have been through every common and uncommon life like these soulmates have been, the end of one story only herald another unique and theirs to begin, and _that_ is something worth celebrating.

And celebrating is what Triss intends to do. At least it _was_ her plan. She has finished the first step where she bought a pack of cigarettes at the nearest convenient store in ignorance of the shop assistant’s kind dissuasion _(“don’t worry girlie, this thing sure as hell ain’t gon be as deadly as those M16 back in ’Nan!”)_ and snuck into an empty and dark alley after repeatedly checking the perimeter to stretch her re-invigorated limbs. She can see herself from the mud puddle on the ground with a flicker of flame at the tip of her fingers as she pats her youthful face, no longer crinkled, sighing in satisfaction. To pretend to be normal, she has been forging her natural aging with magic for the past decades. It has not easy, a (relatively!) young soul trapped in an ancient body, every joint and muscle of it not feeling like her own. But before she sets off to track Philippa for their next life together, she does have a bit of reprieve. She can still--

“Triss? I mean, Lady Merigold?”

The newly lit cigarette on her lips falls into the puddle and hisses as the spark fizzles out, almost burning Triss’ fingers in the process. She coughs while transforming the tiny flicker on her fingertips into a vibrant flame bouncing on her palm and makes a hasty turn, primed to attack the malicious company using a name she has not heard in such a long time that it becomes unfamiliar to her. In the faint light cast by the fire, she sees flaxen hair framing around a young face with sharp and fierce emerald eyes, an evil scar slashing across one of them. Her entire posture screams death and destruction.

Even when this huntress is semi-polite, if she already finds out about her identity, no amount of camouflage is going to get her out of it. Triss straightens up and raises her hand to turn the fire into a fully-grown fireball ready to throw, bright light shining on the girl’s raised eyebrow in curiosity instead of fear and the velvet choker with obsidian jewelry on her neck…

_...Wait, what?_

_What the fuck?_

Triss’ expression grows more malevolent. While the girl’s entire attention is focused on her glowing right hand, the hand on her side tightens along with an invisible one on the girl’s neck, cutting off her air supply, her tensed arm trembling slightly from the pure intensity of her magick. The girl is lifted off a few inches from the ground, clawing at fingers that aren’t there in vain.

“The choker on your despicable, about-to-snap neck belongs to a very dear friend of mine,” she forces her speech through gritted teeth, “what did you do to her, you little piece of shit?”

_Uhh… Lady Merigold… If you wish to ask someone questions… Make sure to retain their ability to speak…_

Another feeling too distant to be familiar shocks her into loosening her grip, but Triss remembers to put the girl back down gently instead of tossing her off. "The huntress" leans against the wall and coughs violently. However, when she manages to look up once again, Triss finds that she is much younger than the scar makes her appear to be, maybe even not older than 16 or 17, and her supposedly viper-like eyes are filled with bright mischief and a silver of undoubtful authority, almost like…

“Phew… Maybe next time I should lead with an introduction, but you do have a hell of a reflex, Tr--Lady Merigold,” she adjusts her stance to reach out a silvery-ringed hand to the person she was almost suffocated by a moment ago, “Cirilla Fiona of Vengerberg, at your service… but Mo--I mean, Lady Yennefer seemed to mention that people do not speak in this manner anymore?”

“Of Venger… Wait, so you’re Yenna’s daughter? But that’s impossible!” Saints, or a name more known to the common crowd, angels have relinquished every and all secular ties, fertility included, a small sacrifice her old friend never ceases to be sour about. But when Cirilla Fionna approaches, apart from the striking similarity in temperament and behaviors, Triss can recognize more details so unlike Yennefer of Vengerberg. Nothing in her appearance reminds Triss of Yennefer’s angular cheekbones and her cold amethyst eyes shining with tenderness only when they are directed toward her (and another name now added to the terribly short list) besides the necklace. The girl smells like fresh sage and lemon and vigorous summer mornings instead of a gust of elusive wind of lilac and gooseberries tempting you to sink in. In spite of having seen Yennefer in older days, Triss does not recall any agility of a swallow or undiluted interest of a newborn pup, daring her to hug the girl she just met tightly, and her hug is returned in kind.

“Pleasure meeting you, Cirilla,” Triss says when they break apart as she stares at the coloring bruises around the girl’s collar with a little embarrassment, “Sorry I overreacted…”

“It’s alright. Mom told me about the kind of people who hunt us for sport. You can never be too careful. And you can call me Ciri.” The girl sticks her tongue out and points to the scar on her face, her tone quick to change on seeing Triss’ horrified look, “I’m fine, really! You should see the other guy when mom was done with him.”

“Well, knowing your mother like I do, I’d rather not.” Triss feigns a shiver, eliciting several giggles, “and you shall call me Triss. Few people address with ‘lady’ these days indeed.”

“Aye aye, La--Triss.” Ciri tips her invisible hat and pulls at her choker, “ah, almost choked to death surely makes me thirsty,” the girl gazes up with bright green eyes and smirks at Triss, “I hereby grant you forgiveness by buying me ice cream, Triss.”

Triss narrows her eyes in faux sternness. “ _I_ will be choked to death when your mother finds out.”

“Please, big sis!” Ciri continues to blink innocently, already taking the saint’s arm while remembering to snatch a newly drawn cigarette from her hand and throw it into the trash, ignoring indignant glare without a shame, “she doesn’t need to know about it.”

“And now I’m a ‘big sis’? You really go to a new low for a cup of ice cream.” Triss shoots her an unbelieving look and complies with reluctance, but her cheerful voice betrays her rekindled spirit. While her celebration did not quite go according to the plan, this isn’t bad in any sense. “Also not working, Ciri. You may have known your mother for a decade or so, but for me it’s been centuries. And Yennefer. Knows. Everything.”

They head for the exit of the dark alley. Ciri’s lips curl down with disappointment.

“Liar.”

“Wanna bet? Loser pays for the ice cream bill.”

“I’m just a child. I don’t have money to do that!”

“Nice try, kiddo.” Triss flashes the wallet with a dark horse pattern that magically appears in her hand in “hey! That’s personal! Give me back!” protest. If anyone among the Sunday morning crowd passing by sees a thick stack of scarlet queen, the moment is so fleeing it must be an illusion, “monster hunter apparently pays you well enough to have ice cream for every meal.”

With selfish motives inconvenient to speak out about, Triss watches with content as the girl blushes, something a real witcher can never pull off. Because of the same reasons, she does not tell Ciri that she remembers she actually saw her once and the history as well as outcome between her mother and her in-a-sense father. If Yennefer has remained silence in these regards, it is not her place to tell her everything, especially because after last time she lost Philippa, she was unable to find her again for so long that she almost thought it was for good, and did something that robbed her of the chance to stand idly aside watching her best friend’s love life going down in flames. Geralt was not a decent man, but he wasn’t a bad one either, and Triss will forever (literally since she is immortal) shoulder the burden of hurting someone she cherishes deeply over her selfish desire, and it wasn’t even a sexual one. Although maybe there is something bigger than them saints moving things around, Yennefer and him did not end in happily ever after. The magic disappeared abruptly in a morning, and the brunette showed up at the only friend she knew could turn to without being judged as abruptly with a crying baby. Despite all the awkwardness happened between them, Triss welcomed her with open arms without hesitation, but she also warned Yennefer in explicit terms to deal with the child of fate of the witcher, or else “one of these day destiny--if she ever exists--will come back and bite you brutally on the arse.”

In retrospect, she should have known her good friend with a long and proud history of stubbornness would not listen.

“How are we supposed to find out even if that’s true?” Ciri challenges like a sparrow with its tiny chest puffed, her hands on the hips. They push their way through the large crowd drawn out by the rare sunny morning, something so rare it fills up almost every empty seat of the restaurant in the open air by the sides of the road, “after all, it was my first contract. Lady Saint Sabrina was generous with the reward, but the basilisk’s venom also ruined my favorite pants and almost cost me a leg. I’m not putting my leverage on anything before I know for sure I can win.”

Witchers are creatures born from magic, albeit of a kind most saints consider too inferior to treat as an equal power, and only emotionless killing machines can spawn out of it. When these land used to be ruled by monsters of wanton destruction, villagers would collect dusty coins piece by piece for cat-eyed men to kill werewolves prowling the shadows or kikimores nesting at the bottom of an ancient oak tree. In modern society, this glorious burden (of paying) falls onto the guardians of this plane, Triss and her colleagues. She does not know every one of them, but she does know most of them, Sabrina Glevissig included. She secretly rolls her eyes at that, too.

“Regardless, you’ll get ice cream, won’t you?” Triss’ grin grows maybe a bit too wide for Ciri’s liking after she feels the vibrations of the phone in her pocket. She pulls it out and shows her screen smugly to the reluctant ashen-hair girl.

_Ice cream is fine as long as you steer herself from drugs. She just arrived in the mortal world not long ago. If she picks up any bad habits, no owl in the world will be smartass enough to hide you from me. XO Yenna_

“What did I just say?” Triss switches back to the navigation page before casting a glance to Ciri, half-sulking, half-bewildered, next to her. The little one does exhibit the atmosphere of unsophisticated fearlessness and reservation at the same time. The saint suddenly wants to keep her around.

“What is this ‘drugs’? Are those tiny little pills they sell together with beverages? And what does an owl have to do with her threat?” The girl scratches at her head and allows herself to be dragged across the street. It is quite obvious that she has just acquire the skill to read the traffic lights and is unclear of the direction she is supposed to check when crossing. Triss hastily drags her back in time to avoid colliding her with a roaring motorcycle plus colorful curses.

"On that note, would you mind me talking about it  _after_ I have bacon and scrambled eggs in my stomach? It was very draining to get an early start on a funeral, after all."

This surely piques the young girl's interest, but Triss is adamant about it. She goes against heated protests of  _"but what about ice cream"_ and  _"but Blitish breakfast is awful"_ and drags her instead toward the direction opposite to her desired destination, deliberating about how to, for the first time, explain the centuries-old relationship between her and Philippa Eilhart to someone.


End file.
